Tarantula
by Mushroom Wonderland
Summary: She's tantalizing and fiery. He loves it. Serena/Stanton.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own daughters of the moon.

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**tarantula**

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Rosy cheeks, carved beautifully, and rosy lips in a perpetual pout, is what he observes. Her skin's dusky, sunlit and glittering. A cluster of black ringlets frame her oval face, a countenance of alluring poise. She's all tricks and treats this night. Emerald gemstones graze the sea of boys and girls, black eyelashes sweeping the roses of her cheeks. She's not bashful, won't allow it, and he finds it charming. His insides prickle pleasingly.

The nightclub is Chinese. Little golden Buddhas are in the stained glass windows, each smoking a joint. Smoke and ash and liquor and human sweat perfume the atmosphere, and he finds himself toying with his black shirt, it's too hot. She's dancing, like always, in a manner that sets his heart afire, a scorching desire more passionate than the animal predator in him. It's just as dangerous, too.

However, she's taboo. Taboo to look at, to observe, legs and arms and stomach and chest and face. The angular nose and slender thighs and glistening flesh is one of forbidden temptation. Yet, it isn't fear that propels his blood. It's longing for something he can't have, like a challenge. She's so close, so far, he doesn't even know anymore.

_I know what you're doing_, an intimate whisper flutters across his mind's eyes. He gawks as, for a moment of time, those emeralds sweep across the sapphires (blue aflame and shimmering), and the corners of her ripe lips curve upward into a smirk. She's _smirking_. It's delicious, and he steps closer. Nights and nights he's gazed at her, unfolded her mind, and she's taken notice. And now… _she's _preying on _him_.

His heart explodes. His stomach quenches. He smirks at her, through the crowd, and she vanishes, a flicker of curls. It's only a second's paralysis, his muscles taut, sensing the predatory hunt for him, it's like guerilla warfare - an _ambush_. She's charms and sweets, no longer allowing him the pleasure, the pleasure of her dancing.

'_Stanton_,' she greets, touching his arm, startling him. She knows his name, it rolls of her tongue smoothly, like the a wet pebble's surface. '_Why are you watching me every night?_'

He's all smirks. '_Goddess…_ _What makes you think your not my next victim?_'

'_I'd _love _to be your victim._'

His eyebrows rise, his heart shuddering. Her words, they're so abnormal on her tongue, in her mind. She's sweet, nurturing, not a conniving temptress. She smiles smugly, and touches his arm once more. An electric energy freezes his blood; flaming heat. She, too, pauses, pursed lips and fluttering eyelids, before she shakes her head. The curls stroke her skin.

'_I'm Serena, and I'd love for you to stop staring at me all the time._' She's about to leave, to grace the dance floor, yet he clasps her hand, the flesh warm and silken. Her emeralds enlarge, encrusted with stunned astonishment and… pleasure? Delight? He releases her just as swiftly, blinking at his hand, fingers uncurled. It's still warm.

'_I though you wanted to be my victim?_' he teases, although it's wonder. She's not a victim of a raped soul or a dead heart. No, he wants something deeper; peel the flesh and grasp something no one's touched before. Her… affection? Trust? Connection? What is that? He contemplates only a moment longer before she's giggling. It sounds oddly alluring.

'_You're flirting with me. First Vanessa, now me. Who's next? _Catty?!' She finds it absurd and giggles more. He frowns. He didn't flirt with Vanessa. She was a target. A mission of his master. Serena's a mission, alright. He just doesn't know of what and the purpose beneath it.

She smiles once more, perfect pearls. '_I see you're not exactly coherent right now_…'

'_I didn't flirt with her_!' he exclaims, stepping too close for comfort. She arches an eyebrow, her smirk so perfect. Frankly, in the strobes of red lights, with her glistening dusky flesh, and enticing smile… she's, quite plainly, _hot_. The word never suited anyone till now, so foreign to his mind and body. What's so attractive about her? Why does her want her trust and affection, and what does that make?

'_Okay, okay_.' She holds up her hands in mock surrender.

'_I'm flirting with you, though_,' he comments, touching her shoulder, the damp flesh. Her blouse is silk and slink and sheer; it's the color of a deep green. The neckline sinks, and he only glimpses once before reminding himself that she's not an object for his sapphires. Has he ever thought in such a way? His own appropriateness bemuses him, even as he resists the temptation of admiring her legs beneath the clingy denim shorts; the hems are shredded, not too compressing.

'_I can see that_,' she whispers. Her voice is heavier. The smoke is trapped in her lungs. She rubs her swanlike neck, the golden chains draped around it swaying. '_Why don't you go to Cassandra or something?_' Jealousy. It's there.

He smiles crookedly. Is that triumph in his black heart?

'_She's cold. You're warm. I like it._'

'_I'm warm…?_' She fakes bewilderment and flattery. Her eyebrows flatten. She licks her lips coyly, and glimpses over her shoulders. The emeralds return, blackened and deep and flaming. '_Are you warm or cold_?' He opens his mouth, but she shakes her head, saying, '_I'll see for myself.' _

She's not warm. She's _hot_. Her lips are clumsy and wet against his. Her breath is hot, her lips are hot and in bloom, perfectly luscious. She's grasping his shirt, her heart touching his, and he grasping her cheeks, the flesh warm. He breathing into her mouth, against her neck, into her curls, even as her back is against the wall, spine crushed. She's breathing right back. It's all shallow breathing, sucking it in from one another's mouths. He bites the curve of her neck, and she gasps. It is pleasure or shock or pain? Or all melded into one universal feeling? What is that feeling?

_I'll be your victim_, she whispers into his mind. Emerald and sapphires connect, glittering and blazing, and the breathing is what touches their ears. _And I think you're warm…_

He smirks once more.

_I think you're _hot.

She's not blushing, her cheeks are flushed. It's the Hot. It explodes in everyone, their flesh on fire. They're crumbling, collapsing in the flames. His is so peculiar, however; it's a passionate scalding heat that detonates in his body. His heart is fragmented. It's on the tip of his tongue, that name, that feeling. He's seen on the sacred screens of films, in the white pages of dusty novels, in the hearts of men and women, lovers on the streets grasping hands.

'_I think you're thinking of _love,' Serena murmurs into his ear, it's like the purring of a cat. She's dangerous to the eyes, something anyone fears; there's a darkness in her emeralds everyone sees but comments nothing on. Her fangs bare, yet she's harmless. She's frightening, but not something to fear - like a tarantula.

'_You don't love me_,' she whispers, and it's a warning - a warning he's not going to heed. She, too, is excited at the prospect, young love and virgin hearts and dazzling passions. It's all wine and nighttime dinner and roses - and kisses and tongue and lips. He's done it all… But the connection to that someone, the trust buried in your soul, the affectionate tenderness. It's so new, and now he names it rightfully. Love.

It's Love.

'_I think I do._'

Damn, she's so hot when she blushes.


End file.
